Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jiang Hao

BOOK OF SIN (EXCERPT)

1.

I dream of things, and they grow tall—looking down
at dreams. After June, a new hoe awaits you, covered with
dragonflies. Those who have fallen there drag your shadow around
in the water. Rippled. That’s you, walking, in the ridge between the
thread-bound books, laboring. Dust shivering, but not stirring me

or the old wheels under the eaves. When time wakes up,
you point to the spider and the bat: “The messengers of Day and Night
must love each other, as rice and wheat falling from the sky.”
Dew, shaken loose by mustaches, makes the star-chasing meadow mice
stoned in the grass. Light creeps to the tree tops. How can I imagine you completely

and see myself clearly? “Am I still the son you needed?”
You keep the flames and let the last batch of butterflies fly away
bypassing the altar. I lie down by the locust tree, reading birds in the sky.
Like smoke rising and spiraling from different villages, we finally embrace in the air.
And is that you? Reaching out for the sun in the water, like finding a china bowl

with gold rim, smashed in the early years. Night smells of herbal medicine,
someone by the well signs. The moon splits the black hair.
“It’s time. A person has only a fleeting presence.
You may repent, make life lower its wings, and lay your body flat.”
But you stand. A green vegetable coughs to itself and beats its chest with leaves.

罪中之书(节选)

罪中之书(节选)

1,

我梦想的事物,逐渐高大,可以俯视梦想
从6月23日开始,一把新锄落满蜻蜓。在等着你
先前倒下的人,拖着你的影子在水中游离、扩散
那是你在走,在两册线装书中间的田埂上劳作
灰尘在背后发抖,但怎能惊动我

和檐下的旧车辐。当一个时代醒来
你指着蜘蛛和蝙蝠:“这昼与夜的使者
要爱着,如天空落下的稻谷和麦粒”
须眉震落的露珠,让搬运星星的田鼠在草丛里发呆
而光爬向树颠,我能否完整地想象你

并看清自己?“我还是不是你需要的儿子?”
你只保存着火焰,让最后一批蝴蝶也绕过神龛
那时,我躺在院中的刺槐树根读书,鸟携着天空
我们像来自不同村庄的炊烟,最终却在苍天拥抱
而那是不是你?把手伸向水中的夕阳,像要找回

早年失手打碎的红边细碗。这样的中药之夜
有人在井边摸索、喘息,月亮劈开黑发
“这将是寂静。一个人只能获得的暂时的存在
可以忏悔;让生活降下翅膀,把肉体平放”
而你站着。一棵青菜,向自己咳嗽用叶片捶胸
Close

BOOK OF SIN (EXCERPT)

1.

I dream of things, and they grow tall—looking down
at dreams. After June, a new hoe awaits you, covered with
dragonflies. Those who have fallen there drag your shadow around
in the water. Rippled. That’s you, walking, in the ridge between the
thread-bound books, laboring. Dust shivering, but not stirring me

or the old wheels under the eaves. When time wakes up,
you point to the spider and the bat: “The messengers of Day and Night
must love each other, as rice and wheat falling from the sky.”
Dew, shaken loose by mustaches, makes the star-chasing meadow mice
stoned in the grass. Light creeps to the tree tops. How can I imagine you completely

and see myself clearly? “Am I still the son you needed?”
You keep the flames and let the last batch of butterflies fly away
bypassing the altar. I lie down by the locust tree, reading birds in the sky.
Like smoke rising and spiraling from different villages, we finally embrace in the air.
And is that you? Reaching out for the sun in the water, like finding a china bowl

with gold rim, smashed in the early years. Night smells of herbal medicine,
someone by the well signs. The moon splits the black hair.
“It’s time. A person has only a fleeting presence.
You may repent, make life lower its wings, and lay your body flat.”
But you stand. A green vegetable coughs to itself and beats its chest with leaves.

BOOK OF SIN (EXCERPT)

1.

I dream of things, and they grow tall—looking down
at dreams. After June, a new hoe awaits you, covered with
dragonflies. Those who have fallen there drag your shadow around
in the water. Rippled. That’s you, walking, in the ridge between the
thread-bound books, laboring. Dust shivering, but not stirring me

or the old wheels under the eaves. When time wakes up,
you point to the spider and the bat: “The messengers of Day and Night
must love each other, as rice and wheat falling from the sky.”
Dew, shaken loose by mustaches, makes the star-chasing meadow mice
stoned in the grass. Light creeps to the tree tops. How can I imagine you completely

and see myself clearly? “Am I still the son you needed?”
You keep the flames and let the last batch of butterflies fly away
bypassing the altar. I lie down by the locust tree, reading birds in the sky.
Like smoke rising and spiraling from different villages, we finally embrace in the air.
And is that you? Reaching out for the sun in the water, like finding a china bowl

with gold rim, smashed in the early years. Night smells of herbal medicine,
someone by the well signs. The moon splits the black hair.
“It’s time. A person has only a fleeting presence.
You may repent, make life lower its wings, and lay your body flat.”
But you stand. A green vegetable coughs to itself and beats its chest with leaves.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère